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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/HerScreams on 2024-10-01 13:35:25+00:00.

I never imagined my first job as a nurse would be like this. Fresh out of nursing school, I thought working night shifts would give me the experience I needed . Something to prove myself. It wasn’t what I wanted exactly, but the hospital was desperate for staff, and I was desperate for a start.

The hospital wasn’t in the heart of Tokyo, where I had dreamed of working, but farther out , on the city’s fringes, nestled near the mountains where the urban sprawl met the wilderness. The isolation didn’t bother me. In fact, I thought it would be a good way to learn without the pressure of being in a big, crowded facility. Quiet. Uncomplicated.

The mental hospital was old, towering over the surrounding area like some relic of another time. The kind of building that looked like it belonged in a ghost story , long hallways, walls yellowed with age, and the perpetual smell of antiseptic and damp concrete. Its exterior walls were cracked in places, the paint peeling off, and inside, the sterile fluorescent lights flickered just enough to make you wonder if the electricity was reliable.

My first night at the hospital had started normally enough, though. At 10:00 PM, as the day staff was packing up, I found myself alone in the nurses’ station, organizing my materials for the night. There wasn’t much to do yet, except get used to the quiet and the way the hospital seemed to shift when the sun went down.

Yuki, one of the nurses who had only been working here for a couple of weeks, strolled in, clearly relieved to be heading home. She had the look of someone who was still figuring things out herself. Two weeks isn’t enough time to settle into a place like this, I thought.

“You’re the new one, right?” she asked, giving me a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

I nodded. “Yeah. First night.”

She stopped mid-step, raising an eyebrow. “Did they give you the rules?”

“Rules?” I asked, confused.

Yuki’s expression shifted slightly. “They didn’t give you a set of rules for the night shift?”

I shook my head. “No, no one mentioned anything about rules.”

“That’s… weird,” Yuki said, frowning as though something wasn’t sitting right with her. “When I started, they gave me these weird rules. I’ve only been here two weeks, so I’m still getting used to them myself.” She walked over to the desk and pulled out a blank piece of paper, grabbing a pen. “Let me write them down for you. You’ll want to follow these.”

I watched as she wrote quickly, her brow furrowed slightly. She seemed distracted, maybe even a little uneasy. Her inexperience showed, but she handed me the paper with a serious look.

“Follow these exactly, and you should be fine.”

I took the paper from her and looked at the list of handwritten rules:

Rule #1. At 12:45 AM, make sure the windows in the west wing are closed. If one is open, close it and leave immediately.

Rule #2. If you see a patient walking in the hallway after midnight, do not speak to them. They are not patients anymore.

Rule #3. If the lights in the east wing go out, leave the wing and do not return until sunrise.

Rule #4. If the elevator doors open by themselves, do not get inside. Wait for them to close.

Rule #5. If you see a shadow that doesn’t belong to you, leave the room immediately.

Rule #6. If escape is your only option, be prepared to sacrifice a part of yourself.

I stared at the paper, not sure what to make of it. It looked like something out of a ghost story. I glanced up at Yuki, expecting her to laugh, but she didn’t.

“Is this some kind of initiation thing?” I asked, hoping that maybe this was just some odd tradition for new staff.

“No,” Yuki said, shaking her head, her voice quieter now. “It sounds ridiculous, I know. But trust me, you’ll want to follow them. I’ve heard… things.”

I frowned, studying her face for any sign of humor, but there was none. She wasn’t joking. This was something real for her.

“Are you sure this is all of them?” I asked.

Yuki hesitated, biting her lip as though trying to remember something else. “I… I think that’s everything. I’m still getting used to it myself.” She forced a smile. “It should be fine if you follow these.”

Before I could ask anything else, Yuki grabbed her things and left the station, leaving me standing there in silence. I looked at the clock: 10:20 PM. The night was just beginning.

I folded the paper carefully, slipping it into the pocket of my scrubs. A joke, I thought. It has to be. But something about the way Yuki had looked at me, the serious expression on her face… it was unsettling.

The hospital was unnervingly quiet at night. The hum of the fluorescent lights and the occasional distant creak of old pipes were the only sounds that broke the silence. I found myself wandering the halls just to keep myself busy, the sense of isolation heavy in the empty corridors. By 12:30 AM, I made my way toward the west wing, the folded piece of paper still in my pocket.

There wasn’t any particular reason I went there. Maybe I was testing the ridiculous rules to see if they were just part of some strange tradition for newcomers. Or maybe it was the pull of curiosity—what if Yuki was right?

The west wing was empty, as I expected. Its long, dimly lit hallways seemed to stretch on forever, the shadows from the rooms creeping out toward the center of the hall. I glanced into each room as I passed, but they were all empty. Just empty white beds and old medical equipment, unused and forgotten.

I checked my watch. 12:42 AM. My fingers grazed the folded paper in my pocket, and I sighed. Might as well get it over with. I began checking the windows in the hallway.

First one was closed . The second one , Closed. 3rd one as well .

I kept moving, my footsteps echoing unnaturally loud in the still air. The cold from outside seemed to seep in through the walls, making the air heavy and uncomfortable. As I approached the final window, my breath caught in my throat.

It was open…

Just slightly, but enough for the cold night air to drift in, brushing against my skin with a chill that felt too deliberate. Too personal.

I stood there for a moment, frozen by the absurdity of it all. But I shook it off, telling myself that old buildings had quirks like this. Windows didn’t always close properly.

Still, I felt a strange reluctance to touch it, to shut it. It was as though something wanted it open, needed it open. I closed the window, and the latch clicked with a sound that felt final, like closing a door to something unseen. The silence that followed was louder than the click itself.

Relieved, I quickly left the west wing, trying to shake off the feeling that something had changed. It’s just an old hospital. Nothing more.

By 1:30 AM, the hospital had settled into an eerie kind of stillness. I returned to the nurses’ station, trying to distract myself by checking the security monitors. Most of the patients were asleep, their rooms quiet.

Except for Room 5.

The man inside had been pacing back and forth for a while. I didn’t think much of it at first. Nighttime restlessness wasn’t unusual here, especially among the patients. But as I watched the monitor, my eye caught something else—something moving in one of the hallways.

A man in a hospital gown was standing in the middle of the second-floor corridor. His back was turned to the camera, his body still, facing away from me. At first, it seemed like he was just standing there, lost or confused. His head was slightly tilted to one side, almost like he was listening to something I couldn’t hear.

A cold sensation crawled up my spine.

I grabbed my flashlight out of reflex, but my hands shook as I moved toward the hallway where I’d seen him. My footsteps were slow, hesitant, the beam of light bouncing nervously off the walls as I reached the corridor.

When I turned the corner, he was still there.

Standing in the center of the hallway.

His back was to me, his hospital gown hanging loosely off his frail frame. His posture was wrong, his body stiff like a mannequin. He wasn’t moving. I couldn’t even see the rise and fall of his chest to indicate he was breathing.

I took a cautious step forward, then stopped as I heard it . His breathing.

It wasn’t normal.

It was ragged, deep, and inhuman. Each breath came in uneven bursts, almost like gasping, but slower. The kind of breath you’d expect from someone trying to force air into lungs that didn’t work anymore. A wet, dragging sound followed each inhale, like something inside him was broken.

He still didn’t move. His head stayed tilted, his back rigid.

He was waiting.

I wanted to call out, to ask if he needed help. My instinct was to move closer, but then the rule flashed in my mind . If you see a patient walking in the hallway after midnight, do not speak to them. They are not patients anymore.

I felt a rush of dread, as though a cold hand had wrapped itself around my heart.

His breathing grew louder, more ragged. I could hear the wet gurgling sound of his lungs struggling to function. But he didn’t turn around. He didn’t move.

I took a step back, then another. My chest tightened with fear, my breath catching in my throat as I slowly backed away from the hallway. I couldn’t tear my eyes away from him. My mind screamed at me to run, but I forced myself to move slowly, carefully.

As I turned the corner, there was no denying the cold, creeping terror that told me I’d narrowly avoided something terrible.

By 2:00 AM,…

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